Traveling to Bohemia
by Schizotypical
Summary: Jack Kerouac was just a drunk misogynist loser why do people still like him? Also Hunter S. Thompson sucks too. Read and review, or something (but really who would want to.)


Time moved too fast for me. When I woke up in one instance, it was morning, and it was odd, because the sky looked like it was burning. You know, someone taking a lighter and it's all red and yellow. Something like that. Then it was night when I felt myself wake up in another place. I couldn't recognize it at all, but it was peeling and dying. A house that lived far too long and seen too many things. And I felt sorry for it.

I should've felt sorry for myself, but I couldn't. Because I wasn't entirely sure if that was what my self would've wanted.

Light and darkness appeared frequently and was coercive, a consensual blend of colors bleeding and radiating, things evolving and changing at a rapid rate, nothing outside of what was in my head affecting me, even temperatures and if I was one day shot or hit with a mallet. I collected my breaths on the window pane and saw my reflection. I knew it was me, and I was alive, but who I truly was becoming, I didn't know. There was worry that I was dying like this home I lived in, the plaster of my head coming apart and crumbling to time and carelessness. I left everyone behind without my knowledge, and some days I felt guilty. Some days I thought I was the only one who could make sense of all of this. I was never labeled with any sort of mental illness, at least, I think I never was. The stream of time was normal, the river flowing just like it should. Then it seemed to flow through ground and the air. Things no longer made sense, though I was fine with it. Just no one was here to listen to me or to hear my heart pluming and calling in my cage.

I abandoned Sonic. The fact remains indelible and inexcusable. I never uttered goodbye or any word that I would live some sort of weird Bohemian lifestyle. I thought it wouldn't be right if he was by my bed anymore. He wouldn't understand and never gave these sort of things any thought. He had the philosophy of what happened; happened, but ever since I was young, I looked up to the blue empty sky and thought the long streaks of light from the clouds and planes and all were made by God or some other supreme being slicing our reality and looking from above to see if things were in order. Mandatory surgery to see the inner workings of Earth, the cells running through its organs and veins and heart chambers.

I asked myself that night as Sonic grumbled and breathlessly whispered things that were ultimately nothings, was everything I did good enough in the end? For anything that we could never fully understand? Was it okay to be here? Did I had to be here? Was anything that happened in this inconsequential flow of time okay and acceptable? Was there a way to erase the things that hurt us wholly or clean up all the dirt and trash that flowed in this stream?

My feet rustled in the covers. They've been like this, itchy, never wanting to submit to inanimation and to be led to a world inside me that was fantastic but full of lies. There was somewhere where I had to be, and my body knew, but I remained.

I remained because I cared, and Sonic meant too much because he cared.

Days were like molasses. Dark, sluggish, bittersweet. I looked in the subtle signs of the world breathing underneath me. Rain that wept outside was trying to talk. The wind blew in the direction I wanted it to. Signals from radios and machines died and no one could usher why. Being still was all I could think of and to stop the din of my thoughts so I could pass as conceivably normal. The days ended with anxiety; tears that wasn't as pure from the kind I smelled outside in the wet bright summer. Humming was licked into my ear from the cicadas and the harsh distortion from the heat that never bothered me. This yellow light became darker, and I felt myself becoming unconscious. Then I was here. Then I was talking to everyone I didn't know but never talking to the people I knew. Physically I ran away from my home, but mentally I remained in a familiar world that wouldn't be familiar or rational to anyone else.

Touch my head, I whispered to them. Was I hot, but my organs felt cold? Let me bite my tongue on your little Popsicle stick, to see my words effortlessly were birthed. Look into my ears, see how empty my head is, spill my knowledge out like a tea kettle, drink from the fine red wine I just produced.

Doctors didn't know anything. There were a colorful satchel of pills I was supposed to take, to go in a place where the only color it spoke of was white, the lovely women there were sirens but just wanted to see you die in the undertow of despair. I felt I was alright, that was the only opinion I could look forward to. Sonic's opinion mattered to me too, but he was distant and alone and gone and there was nothing more I could think about me letting this relationship die. Our love was a living being, but I couldn't feed it anymore. I no longer had the money to pay for its metal cans of meat and sacrifice. Water evaporated from my tap to let it drink my mercy. No time remained for me to look through it and see its eyes were discolored and sad. I've forgiven Sonic for everything he was going to say to me about my disappearance, and I've forgiven myself.

My eyes scanned this gray bleeding wall like rusty nails. It kept moving and breathing and pleading for me to help it. My sweet insanity had said the same, but for now, this wall was the only thing I could understand and the only thing I wanted to see while I was in media res of my supposed ascension.

If anything, it was a disillusionment that I was better than everyone else and I didn't had time for them anymore, and that no one had the time to give to me and let me swallow like a sweet soft saturated dessert.


End file.
